


The Daily Grind(r)

by pega



Series: Rom Com Compilation [2]
Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Dick Jokes, Fluff, Humor, M/M, dirty humor, might loop back to this later but yeah I am so sorry, no sex scenes but lots of sex jokes, okay so way more dick jokes than even I anticipated, partially abandoned I am so sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2018-02-02
Packaged: 2019-02-22 00:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13154991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pega/pseuds/pega
Summary: The Daily Grind is the cornerstone of the Bluth Family coffee empire. Or at least, it would be, if they could actually retain customers. But Gob Bluth has a plan to drum up business, crush his rival Tony Wonder over at the Wonder Emporium, and get laid. Not necessarily in that order. Michael just wants Gob to show up to work on time. But fate has different plans, and Sucker69 might be more of a Sugar Daddy of information than Gob is bargaining for. (Expect like, so many sex and candy puns.)





	1. Michael

The creaking of the door shook Michael Bluth out of his detailed daydream about exactly how he was going to murder his family. The current front-runner was luring them onto the family yacht with the promise of free alcohol, then dousing it in gasoline and setting the lot of them ablaze. But poison was also an option. Oh yeah, poison was definitely an option.

Michael glowered at his do-nothing brother Gob, who had featured most prominently in said murderous fantasies.

“Where. Have. You. Been?” he managed to get out through clenched teeth. God, his dentist was really going to lay into him at his next checkup. ‘Be careful with the tension, Michael’, is what Dr. Booker constantly told him. Well, Michael would just have to Xerox that bill and send it to his freaking family, that’s what he’d have to do, because if there was any teeth grinding or jaw clenching happening in his life, it was 100% his family’s fault. 

Gob shrugged, aggressively nonchalant as ever. “Sorry Michael. Maybe some of us have more important things to do than hang out in a coffee shop all day. Had you considered that? Some of us have work to do.”

Michael threw his dishtowel at Gob’s big fat head. “This is literally your job.”

His brother scoffed. “No, this is literally YOUR job. Take that!”

Michael sighed. “Yes. Yes it is. Because this is the original Bluth family coffeehouse, also known as our family business. Which, you would know if you ever actually paid attention to anyone but yourself. And you were slated to come in two hours ago! I’ve been stuck behind the counter, slaving like a dog, all because you didn’t show up for your shift.”

“Slaving like a dog? Michael, the only dogs I see around and related to you are your last three dates. Besides, if you were really ‘slaving like a dog’, wouldn’t that require customers?” Gob quirked a condescending eyebrow at his brother.

“Of course there have been customers, Gob!” Michael lied. In reality, it had been a torturously slow day, but that was only because it was the morning. People don’t visit coffee shops in the morning, he rationalized. Too early to be up. Newport beach was full of night owls anyway, a real party scene.

Gob at least had the decency to look moderately chastised. “Right. Sorry, Michael.”

He sighed again, enjoying the weight of the air exiting his lungs. Michael really should have been born first. Gob was just… too irresponsible to truly be considered heir to the Bluth empire. “It’s fine. Where were you?” Michael ushered Gob behind the counter, passing off the coffee covered apron as if Gob was liable to vanish if not presented with tangible proof that his shift was beginning. This was not Michael Bluth being paranoid. Just last weekend, he had turned away for a moment (a moment!) and Gob had disappeared out the bathroom window with an armful of day-old baked goods, like a smoky specter of moochiness.

Gob fumbled with the apron strings. “I was actually doing some reconnaissance, mi hermano.”

“Oh?”

His brother nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah, over at the Wonder Emporium. Did you know that-“

“Gob, for the last time, we aren’t competing with the Wonder Emporium. They sell candy. We sell coffee. Two completely different demographics.” Michael considered his brother. “I mean, if you want to do some, I don’t know, market research, you could start with Starbucks or something. That might be actually helpful.”

“Psh. Michael, we don’t compete with Starbucks,” Gob dismissed. 

Michael frowned. “And why is that, Gob?” Because Michael was pretty damn sure that sales had started going down when the coffee titan opened up yet another location across the street.

Gob gave Michael a pitying look. “Because Starbucks has actually good coffee.”

“Hey!” Michael felt indignant. “Our coffee is artisanal.” He poured himself a to-go cup to emphasize his point.

There was a pregnant moment of silence. Gob nodded at the cup.

“What?” Michael asked.

“Drink it. If you like the Bluth Daily Grind Daily Special of Ambiguous Authentic Origin, drink it.” 

Michael mimed taking a sip. “Mmm. Delicious.” 

The two brothers stared at each other, neither willing to yield. “Michael. One of three things just happened.” Gob hopped on top of the counter, squatting with surprising dexterity as he held out three fingers. 

“Enlighten me, Gob.”

“Happily. See, either you actually drank the coffee, and you just scalded your tongue. Or you didn’t properly refill it half an hour ago and are therefore in violation of the Daily Grind quality pledge.” Gob smirked. “Or you didn’t actually drink it.”

Michael threw the still full cup in the garbage. “Go suck a dick, Gob.”

“As I was trying to tell you before you so rudely interrupted my story, I just did.”

And that was Michael’s cue to leave. “Bye Gob! Try not to burn the place down!” I am so out of this family, Michael thought to himself.

“Michael? Michael!”


	2. Gob

Gob maybe had a slightly unfortunate tendency to exaggerate for dramatic effect. He hadn’t exactly sucked a dick prior to his shift at The Daily Grind. But he definitely could have. He came (ha) really close to it, as a matter of fact. See, that whole escapade began earlier that day, when Gob’s rival slash mortal enemy, Tony Wonder, totally subtweeted Gob. 

 

“Omg, so #blessed for our fourth quarter profits. Major thanks to all Wonder Emporium customers, and a shout out to our haters, I #thrive on your negativity :)” 

 

Which was, A) rude, and B) totally bragging. 

 

One internet research spiral later, and Gob Bluth had a plan most dastardly prepared for execution. He would research Tony Wonder’s business practices, sabotage the Wonder Emporium, and steal all of his customers. Thrilled with the possibility of espionage and disguise, Gob immediately began implementing Phase One - Seduction. 

 

(The Master Plan had twenty-one discrete phases.)

Seduction was, obviously, a strength of Gobs. It’s how he passed algebra, for crying out loud, and unlike the Pythagorean theorem, those skills were directly transferable to his adult life. All 

 

Gob had to do was find a Wonder Emporium employee that was enough of a sucker to spill corporate secrets. Thankfully, Gob found such a person rather quickly, Sucker69 on some lame app called Grindr. Sucker69 was working the evening shift at the Wonder Emporium and had sent Gob some very intriguing personal photos alongside random workplace gossip. 

 

So, George Oscar Bluth just needed to seal the deal with Sucker69, take vigilant notes, save those photos to his hard(ha)drive, save The Daily Grind from ruin or whatever, and shove his success in Tony Wonder’s perfect freaking face. 

 

Easy peasy lemon squeezy. 

~~~

 

Of course, all that would be easier if Gob didn’t have to do a stupid shift at the stupid Daily Grind. And his stupid shift would be so much easier if the customer nursing her third latte would hurry up and leave so he could go back to messaging Sucker69. 

 

Who was he kidding, Gob didn’t need to restrain his sexting on her account. It’s a free country, or at least Lindsay was in the process of buying it and then giving family members backdoor access or whatever.

 

BeeBoi420: hey, u there?

Sucker69: yeah! just waiting for my shift to end, haha. anyway. what’s your deal? 

Sucker69: like, what do you do?

Technically, Gob’s only source of monetary employment was the coffee shop. But that wasn’t what defined him. 

 

BeeBoi420: i’m actually a magician. super good at it too. Hbu?

Sucker69: oh my god, same! well, i have this day job, i sell candy to snot nosed kids. but at night, i’m a headliner at the gothic castle, actually

 

Envy. Crushing, debilitating envy careened through Gob’s sensitive veins. The Gothic Castle was, well, not necessarily the holy grail of clubs to headline at, but it was certainly a bigger gig than Gob had landed in the last six months. 

 

BeeBoi420: oh yeah i think maybe i’ve heard of that place

BeeBoi420: anyway, what’s it like working at the wonder bore-porium?

BeeBoi420: get it, cause it’s boring?

Sucker69: uh, actually, it’s never boring at the Wonder Emporium

Sucker69: i mean, right now it’s a little slow, you know, the dinner lull. 

BeeBoi420: oh, i totally know what you mean, my day job has a morning lull. which is good, because i seriously hate making coffee before dawn, like, that’s what housekeepers are for

Sucker69: cool! so do you work at starbucks?

Gob was about to scoff and explain that the Bluth Daily Grind was nowhere near Starbucks levels of success and profitability, but he remembered just in time that he was undercover. 

BeeBoi420: sure, totally.

BeeBoi420: you know what? you should tell me more about you. i’m working on this whole listening thing and you, Sucker69, are about to be the recipient of my very willing ears. what was your childhood like? how do you feel about beekeeping? what’s the Wonder Emporium’s marketing strategy? all that junk!

 

Of course, given Gob’s luck, Sucker69 completely ignored the last question, diving immediately into a lengthy rant about his childhood trying to live up to his parent’s sky-high expectations and dodging high school jock bullies. But instead of being annoying, it was actually kind of nice. Gob didn’t get to play the confidante very often. Usually, Michael would tell him about problems he was having but never take any advice. Sucker69, on the other hand, was doing this thing where whatever Gob said, he incorporated into his next talky bit. 

 

Weird.

 

Weird, but... nice.

 

It wasn’t until Sucker69 sent a “shit, my shift is done! what are you doing tonight?” message that Gob noticed how dark it had gotten outside. 

 

BeeBoi420: do you want to have casual sex?

Sucker69: obviously

Sucker69: but like, not to make this weird, but we should obscure out identities, since this is an anonymous app, yeah?

 

Gob wasn’t super sure that’s what anonymous app meant, but Sucker69 was clearly an old hand at this cyber hookup deal. His carefully cropped torso shot looked profesional, like something that might pop up on a google image search, so he had to be the real deal. 

 

BeeBoi420: oh yeah, definitely. i have some dick masks we can use

Sucker69: they make those??

BeeBoi420: yeah, richard nixon wasn’t the most photogenic president of the eighteen hundreds, but apparently people can’t get enough of that honest stuff

Sucker69: i feel like nixon was president in the 1900s, but i don’t know enough about history to dispute that

Sucker69: sure, bring the dick masks!

Sucker69: just pinky swear to close your eyes until we get the masks on, yeah?

 

Gob felt strangely touched. It wasn’t very often he could find someone else who still venerated the pinky promise properly.

 

BeeBoi420: of course, Sucker69, i promise

 

This was going to be the best night ever.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

This was the worst night ever. Gob stared at his hands in shock, world going slightly blurry through the latex slits those mask manufacturers call eye holes.  _ I’ve made a huge mistake, I’ve made a huge mistake, I’ve made a huge- _

 

Not the sex, that was great, as per Gob’s usual. 

 

The - _ I’ve made a huge-  _ mistake came later, when Gob was feeling all tingly and relaxed and post-coital. Sucker69, having lived up to his user name, was on the verge of sleep, when he turned to Gob and did That Thing. That arm thing, an almost snuggling arm thing, pulling Gob closer and tighter and for a moment, Gob was sinking into Sucker69’s embrace without thinking. Gob was very good at not thinking. And then it started.

 

A stupid  _ thump thump thump _ , and a weird feeling in his gut.

 

Which made no sense, because this should have just been a totally normal hookup. Everything went according to plan, they put on the Nixon masks, they never exchanged real names. Totally anonymous, just a body, just a placeholder, just a source. But maybe it was Gob, maybe it was Sucker69, someone had started laughing, and then they were both laughing for no good reason. And when the laughter died, Sucker69 offered up a story about his latest show at the Gothic Castle, and then Gob had chimed in with a story about his first magic show (seventh grade, he made it snow on stage, dozens and dozens of carefully cut out snowflakes that Mrs. Arnold, that bitch, made him sweep up after), and they spent two hours talking, so much talking time that Gob had almost forgotten about the sex until Sucker69 leaned in closer and closer and-

 

_ Thump thump thump. _

 

Not acceptable. Gob pulled out his special vial, courtesy of looser Mexican laws around prescription refills, shook out two small white pills and put them on the motel nightstand next to a glass of semi-acceptable tap water.  He scrawled out a note that said “For your headache”, then hightailed it the hell out of there, ignoring the slightly freaked out look of the clerk at his still masked semi-nude body.

 

Gob didn't care what any pimpled front clerk thought about his life, because Gob wasn't going to think. He was very good at not thinking about things. He was totally the best at that, everyone said so, even Michael, even his mother. So Gob wasn’t going to think about Sucker69’s laugh, really cool sounding magic show, or that stupid arm thing. 

 

And he certainly wasn’t going to think about why he didn’t take his own forget-me-now. Nope. George Oscar Bluth was not going to open that Pandora’s Box. He was a spy, on a corporate mission of espionage, and spies don’t catch feelings. 

 

Stupid arm thing.


	3. Buster

Buster Bluth loved working at the dusky Bluth Daily Grind. It was exciting to have a real job, he was working a whole five hours a week, and really earning his way as a man. Sure, Mother had some hesitations about letting Buster use boiling water, but they had come to a compromise with Michael. 

 

“Ready for your shift, bud?”

 

Buster grinned. “Our shift, you mean. And heck yeah, brother, I am as ready as a Fourth of July firecracker up in here! I just need to get my little, oh, what’s the word-”

 

“Apron?” Michael provided.   
  


“Yeah! Apron on.” Buster leaned in conspiratorially. “Those strings are just a devil to tie, huh? It’s like you need little gnome fingers to get any sort of knot going.” He picked out his favorite apron, a saucy little number that said: “Kiss Your Barista” on the front. What a hoot!

 

Michael nodded, distracted. “That’s great buddy. Hey, have you seen the new numbers for Starbucks’ fourth-quarter revenue? I think they’re getting cocky with their baked goods expansion, but maybe we should-”

 

In full honesty, Buster sometimes tuned out when his big brother started talking. It wasn’t anything personal, but Michael could just drone on and on and on, and Buster was much more of a renaissance man than a numbers guy. “Hey, did you get the invitation I sent?” Buster cut off Michael midstream. 

 

“Oh. Huh. What invitation would that be?” Michael started rummaging through the stack of paperwork marked Boring Shit. “Honestly, I wish you all would stop using this as your labeling system for incoming mail and documents. It’s unprofessional-  Hey, Buster, is this yours?” He held up an envelope with a massive, glittery golden “BB” on the front. “For Buster Bluth? There isn’t anyone else who works here with those initials, right?”

 

Buster blinked, trying to recall the non-Bluth family employees. “I think we have a Becky that works here, but her last name is Johnson.” His sense of intrigue was piqued. “I wasn’t expecting any mail.”

 

The letter dropped a glob of glitter to the floor. “I don’t think this is the postal service, Buster,” Michael commented. 

 

“True, true.” Buster nodded sagely. “No stamps.”

 

Buster’s beloved brother arched an eyebrow. “Sure. Something like that. Just take it-” Buster eagerly retreated with his prize. Michael called out after him. “You’re still on the register, buddy!”

 

The Bluth Daily Grind break room was decorated in a tasteful chartreuse, courtesy of Mother. Signs on the wall detailed the twenty-seven Bluth Business Commandments. Number one was bolded:  **The Bluth Family is YOUR Family - So Step it Up, Slacker!** Buster repressed a shudder at the enlarged photograph of Lucille Bluth’s frowning face taped to the refrigerator. He hated that shade of eyeshadow on her. 

 

The envelope glistened under the fluorescent lights. Buster pulled back one corner, then the next, until he was able to get a glimpse of-

 

Why that was a man’s-!

 

Buster quickly closed the letter. Then he put it on a nearby table. Then he stacked a pile of old Altitude magazines on top of the letter, just to make sure that Polaroid was as buried as possible. 

 

_ Huh. _ Buster thought.  _ Who would send me a penis? _

 

~~~

 

Buster kept mulling over the mysterious letter until it was time for his two pm nap. On his personal bedroom off the main break room, he slowly sneaked another peek at the letter, carefully averting his eyes from the inappropriate image. 

 

_ Hey BB- _

 

_ I totally can’t remember last night, so I know it was good. How much did we have to drink? I guess I owe you a makeup date though. Gothic Castle, midnight? I’ll be the one on stage, obviously. Bring the Dick masks (again?) too. _

 

_ Stay sweet, _

_ A Sucker for U _

 

_ P.S. Yeah, I own a Polaroid camera. Guess I’m artistic like that. _

 

After a rather frightening naptime dream involving ancient storm holds and sentient lollipops, Buster Bluth felt like he had a better grasp on the whole situation. He probably wasn’t the BB this letter was meant for. But someone at the Daily Grind had an admirer! And possibly amnesia! 

 

Buster’s heart was all aflutter. This was much more excitement than he usually had in a day, and even though he was starting to feel like maybe he should turn in this letter to Michael, the urge to play cupid was entirely too tempting. Buster Bluth always had a soft spot for romance. He was never a great partaker of those tender moments personally but after thirty some odd years with Lucille and George Bluth Sr., who wouldn’t get a glimpse of true romance? 

 

Heck, this letter writer and the intended recipient had gotten so drunk on their first date, they needed a second one! That could only be a good sign, right? 

 

He would need a compatriot though. Somebody more carnally experienced. Someone suave, skilled, and macho enough to help nurture this budding romance, but with a strong enough background in counseling to really help midwife this thing.

 

Buster knew just the former anålrapist.


End file.
